


blood calls to blood

by sxldato



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Coda, Demon Blood Addiction, Episode Fix-it, Episode: s05e14 My Bloody Valentine, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mostly Gen, Self-Esteem Issues, Sick Sam Winchester, Team Dynamics, Withdrawal, and very brief mentions of self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 08:31:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6277189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxldato/pseuds/sxldato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I began doubting the ethics of leaving an addict alone in a locked room with nothing but his own thoughts and suffering for company.”<br/>“I’m <em>not</em> an addict.”<br/>“You’ve fought and killed demons for years now. I hope you realize that it is no less courageous to battle the ones inside of you.”</p><p>Sam's demon blood detox, 2.0-- or the one where Cas (and Dean later on) cuts the bullshit and actually helps Sam out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood calls to blood

**Author's Note:**

> i thought this was gonna be quick and easy but instead it was three months and excruciating. like i love cas but i don't think i should write cas-centric fics because this was just too much  
> i'm so used to writing sam's thoughts, i guess?? and dean's, to a lesser degree. but castiel is still an enigma tbh  
> THATS BEING SAID i'm generally pretty happy with how this turned out, it's really gross and really sweet and really ambiguously gay  
> beta'd. that's right kids i beta-read all 6k words, you're fucking welcome  
> title is from Hebrews 11:40 by The Mountain Goats. i really liked the double entendre that came with titling the fic "blood calls to blood." sam is fighting his addiction to demon blood, but he also finds comfort in his family; demon blood temps sam, calls to him, but in turn sam calls out to _his_ blood, his family.

Listening to Sam’s screams on the other side of the door was far from pleasant. It stirred up an odd sensation in Cas's chest, an unwanted invisible pressure. He didn’t understand why, because Sam’s situation was in no way his fault, and there was nothing he could do to help anyways.

But the feeling persisted.

Maybe another individual’s company would be of comfort; he briefly considered going to find Dean and then thought better of it. Dean had told him about Sam's last demon blood detox, how he had stayed with Sam and looked after him, and how things were different now and he couldn’t do it, not this time. 

Part of Cas sympathized with Dean (part of him always seemed to sympathize with Dean), because watching a loved one go through such agony couldn’t be easy and Sam breaking his sobriety must have been accompanied by some sense of betrayal in Dean, but--

Another part of Cas recognized that this wasn’t about Dean. _This_ , every mistake from the minor slip-ups to the cataclysms that shook the fabric of the universe itself, was too personal. The purposes for all that Sam had done seemed to take root in something very human, something fragile and painful to hold in one’s heart. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Sam cried out again, and Cas had enough of standing idly by.

-

“Sam?” 

It was sad, seeing him curled up in the corner, shivering and drenched in sweat, and he only shrunk in on himself at the sound of his name.

“Sam, I’m not angry with you.”

It wasn’t as if Sam could hide anywhere in the panic room, but it looked like he was trying hard to. His head was buried in his arms as he shook his head _no_ , and a visible chill raced through his body.

Cas started thinking that maybe he was a little out of his depth. Who was _he_ to try and provide something as intimate as comfort?  

But there was no way Dean would do it. A tired footsoldier of an angel would have to do.

He approached Sam, slow and as unthreatening as possible, the way he’d seen Dean do with wounded victims during hunts or dying animals on the side of the road. “Sam,” he murmured again, kneeling down when he was at arm's length from the trembling detoxing mess of a man. “If you let me, I’d like to try and help you.”

 _If you let me,_ because he’d only been around for a little over a year and he already knew how Winchesters were wired. And Sam, who dealt with great struggles in autonomy, probably needed at least a fragment of control over the situation in order to feel comfortable.

Sam raised his head, doubtful watering eyes looking Cas up and down, searching for a lie in the offer. “Why?” He sounded hoarse and weak, and there was very little color in his face.

“You’re not well,” Cas answered. 

“Yeah, I kinda put that together,” Sam replied, clearly exhausted, “considering I'm the one running a fever high enough for me to hallucinate, and I spent a solid hour coughing up blood this morning.”

Cas's brows knitted together in worry. “You should have said something.”

“Because you guys were really listening?” The bite of sarcasm in Sam’s tone fell flat when his voice broke. “Sure, okay, I’ll make a note of that next time I’m locked up in here.”

“Don’t assume there will be a next time. You can’t recover with that kind of mindset.”

Sam closed his eyes, rested his head against the wall. “Why’re you doing this, Cas?”

Cas wasn’t actually solid on that yet, but he tried to scrape a passable answer together. “I began doubting the ethics of leaving an addict alone in a locked room with nothing but his own thoughts and suffering for company.”

Sam scoffed-- a dull sound forced from the back of his throat that conveyed fatigue more than it did exasperation-- and cracked an eye open, looking skeptical. “I’m _not_ an addict.”

“You’ve fought and killed demons for years now,” Cas said, firm without being harsh. “I hope you realize that it is no less courageous to battle the ones inside of you.”

Sam glanced away, falling silent.

"There's no shame in receiving help. Will you let me help you, Sam?”

Sam didn’t look back at him, but he nodded, and a fraction of the pressure in Cas's chest lifted.

-

Cas learned very quickly that detoxing from demon blood got messy.

Sam just… _leaked._ The pain drew wetness to the corners of his eyes, his nose either ran clear or bled, and everything was damp with sweat. As if that weren’t enough, there were incessant and terrifying moments where Sam went milk-white and scrambled for the metal bucket by the side of the bed, clutching his convulsing stomach as he retched.

Cas wished he could do more, wished he could take some of this away.

Sam sat hunched over on the creaky bed, arms wrapped around himself as he shivered. Goosebumps broke out over his skin, and Cas gently draped a blanket around Sam’s shoulders.

“You don’t need to see this,” Sam croaked. “It’s gross, and it’s gonna get worse before it gets better, you don’t have to stay--”

“I want to help you,” he insisted. “This is entirely of my own volition.”

“I know what you think of me,” Sam protested, utterly weak and miserable. “I know how dirty I am, you can quit pretending.”

There wasn’t much that could be said in response to that, or at least not much that would be helpful, and Cas wasn’t too keen on the idea of digging himself a deeper hole by saying the wrong thing. Instead, he poured a glass of water from the pitcher and held it out for Sam.

“You need to stay hydrated.”

Sam seemed more surprised that Cas hadn’t left more than he was at the abrupt change of subject. His eyes went from Cas to the glass of water and back, and then he sent his gaze to the floor again. “I’ll just throw it up,” he said on an exhale.

Cas wondered if the Winchesters had always been so stubborn, especially when it came to admitting to being hurt. It had been a miracle in itself that Sam agreed to let him be present, but now convincing Sam to accept each gesture was like pulling teeth.

“Sam, you aren’t helping yourself,” he said, and he hadn’t expected such worry in his tone. “You’re interfering with the healing process.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re making this more painful for yourself than it needs to be.” 

And suddenly everything made a tragic amount of sense. Sam’s embarrassment, his reluctance to take the help, his hesitance in allowing himself any form of comfort, all of it added up.

“You _want_ this to hurt,” he realized aloud, and the way Sam stiffened was one hell of an indicator that he’d hit the nail on the head. “You want to suffer.”

Sam didn’t try to argue for once. He looked even more humiliated than he had before, and he kept his eyes locked somewhere Cas couldn’t find.

“Sam--”

“I’m sorry.” The words came out rasped and wavering, the promise of a breakdown on their heels.

“There’s no need for an apology.” Cas set the glass of water down next to the pitcher on the table and lifted Sam's chin so he could see him. “Why would you intentionally cause more harm to yourself?”

Sam's eyes were red-rimmed, full of tears, _scared._ “Don’t I deserve it?” He whispered, and it truly sounded like he was asking, like he expected confirmation for whatever he felt.

For once, Cas was at a loss for words. He could only shake his head in dismay and tell Sam “no, no, you don’t, you never have,” and it wasn’t nearly enough. He watched as Sam pulled away from him and tried to hold back tears that refused to be held back any longer. How long had it been since either of the Winchesters had cried? More than that, what was Cas supposed to do now? Some guidance would have been appreciated-- for him and Sam both.

“Listen to me,” he started, figuring they can only go up form here. “You held out against Famine longer than _I_ did. Do you understand how much strength is required for that?”

“But I still--” Sam choked out.

“Yes, you did, and no one blames you.” The blanket began to slip off one of Sam’s shoulders; Cas reached over to adjust it, and kept his hand on Sam's shoulder. “You’re not evil, there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re human.”

“You know what I’ve done,” Sam protested with tears dripping off his face and his lower lip trembling, “how badly I’ve screwed up.”

Cas took a seat next to Sam on the bed, careful to give Sam his space. “Addiction is an ugly and terrible thing, and it does ugly, terrible things to people. But that doesn’t make those people inherently ugly or terrible _._ ”

“This is different and you know it. You _told_ me what I was.”

“I'm not an omniscient being. There are things I don’t understand, things I have yet to learn,” Cas admitted. “And one of those things was you.”

Sam stilled.

“You are not a bad person, Sam Winchester. Not for your mistakes, not for your addiction, none of it. I can promise you that.” He paused. “And I… I'm sincerely sorry for what I said, and how I hurt you.”

Sam wiped his nose with the back of his wrist, drawing an unsteady breath.

“Do you believe me?”

Sam ran a hand through his hair and subconsciously palmed his stomach with the other. “I believe you’re genuine, if that’s what you meant,” he replied, a subtle strain in his words; the pain must have been reaching a peak again. “But I don't know if I can think that way about myself.”

There was another thing the Winchesters had a talent for: beating themselves up more than any outside force ever could. So much of their damage was made of self-destruction; Cas was perceptive, and he had noticed the way Dean put away whiskey, seen the faint precise lines that stretched over Sam’s body like tally marks. He knew, he’d witnessed the way they broke apart when they thought nobody was watching.

But _he’d_ been watching, and the worst part was that he couldn’t fix it, not all of it.

“I wish you could,” he said. “Then you might allow yourself to heal instead of hurting yourself more.”

Sam closed his eyes, doubling over a little and drawing the blanket closer around his body. “I’m _trying_ ,” he managed, and it was quiet and broken. "But it's so goddamn hard to love yourself when you've done what I have. You don't get it, Cas, you couldn't ever get it, and I'm not angry at you for that, just-- just quit acting like it's easy." Sweat had beaded over the bruised purple color around his eyes, and Cas reached for the washcloth without another word.

He pretended not to catch the way Sam leaned into the touch of the cool cloth and went about cleaning Sam up as best he could. It didn’t feel like enough.

-

Later on, Sam had drunk some of the water, and to Cas's relief it had stayed down. But equating Sam keeping down liquids for longer periods of time to the nausea ending had been, Cas realized now, a big mistake.

He’d never experienced nausea for himself before, and watching it run its course through Sam in tune with the raging fever made him quite confident that he wanted to maintain that lack of insight.

He took to rubbing Sam’s back in long, broad sweeps as the hunter gagged into the metal bucket. He could feel the quivering muscles under the skin, the radiating tension, the agony of it, and it wasn’t clear if his ministrations amounted to anything when compared to that. But he kept at it.

“It’s alright,” he murmured when Sam’s groans became even more distressed. “This will end.”

Sam spat into the bucket and rested his forehead against the rim, taking a moment to catch his breath.

“Are you done, do you think?”

Sam shrugged half-heartedly and then lurched a little with a dry-heave.

“Take your time, it's okay.”

A minute passed without event, but Sam’s breathing was still heavy and his t-shirt was once again damp with sweat. Cas considered whether Sam would appreciate a change of clothes, or if it wouldn’t make a difference.

“Cas.”

The rasped single syllable brought him to focus. “Yes, Sam, what is it?”

“Want Dean,” Sam moaned, then swallowed hard. His face was ashen and clammy, and he shook from chills. “I want… I need him, I need him here, I can’t…”

Cas hadn’t felt this lost in a very long time. He didn’t know what he could possibly say to make it hurt less.

“I know,” he said, smoothing down Sam’s sweat-slick hair and tucking the loose strands behind Sam’s ears. “He just needs some time.”

“Cas, _please_.”

He'd heard people plea before. He’d heard begging. But never in all his years had one simple word sounded so raw and beaten-down.

 _I’m sorry_ was completely out of the question. He wouldn’t do that, not to Sam, not right now when Sam was liable to shatter at one wrong move.

“... I’ll talk to him.”

-

Righteous anger towards the righteous man. Even as an angel, Cas was able to appreciate the irony.

“Dean, he’s in pain.”

“You don’t think I figured that out already?”

“He needs you with him, he asked for you.”

“All he does when he’s in there is ask for me-- _scream_ for me. Believe me, I know. This isn’t exactly our first rodeo, remember?”

The two of them sat on the stairs of Bobby’s porch-- Cas with his elbows on his knees and his hands laced, and Dean clutching the neck of a half-empty bottle of bourbon. It was quiet outside save for the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance. Crickets chirped in the shadows between the rusted cars and wind rustled the tall grass.

Dean kicked at the gravel aimlessly with the heel of his boot, taking another swig from the bottle.

“You have to.”

“Yeah, how many times have your douchebag brothers and sisters fed me that line?” Dean muttered.

“My brothers and sisters are _dying_ ,” Cas snapped. “I’ve lost all contact with my family, I’ve lost everything I had. You still have something, you have someone who loves you and needs you; be grateful and do your part.”

Dean gripped the bottle so tight it seemed liable to break. “He wants me to trust him and treat him like an adult, so that’s what I’m doing. He got himself into this mess and he’ll get himself out. This isn’t my responsibility, and this _isn’t_ _my fault._ ” Dean grit his teeth and downed more bourbon.

Cas's expression softened. “That wasn’t what I meant,” he said, brows drawn. “How would someone think this is your fault?”

Dean scrubbed his free hand over his face and kept it there, covering his eyes. “I shouldn’t have let it happen,” he said. “I should’ve known he’d get screwed up with Famine around. He should never have been on that job, I shouldn’t have let him come.”

In times of, well, complete and utter shit, it seemed to Cas that Dean had some go-to words. _Could have, would have, should have._ Reflecting on the past was helpful and all, and hindsight was definitely a useful tool for future endeavors, but Dean dwelled on things. Dean wallowed, let the guilt and self-deprecating thoughts cycle through his head, and drowned himself in liquor until he stopped feeling it.

To say that Cas saw what made Dean tick was a massive understatement.

“You didn’t know,” he said, biting down on the urge to comfort Dean through touch. “And you aren’t _accountable_ for Sam’s actions, but you--”

“I’m supposed to look out for him,” Dean protested, frustration barbing his words. “I’m supposed to keep him safe, that’s my job, and I keep _fucking_ it up--” Dean emphasized the profanity by standing up and chucking the bottle across the yard, a satisfying shatter going off some ways away.

“Sam’s mistakes are not on you,” Cas said, keeping his tone calm and collected in an attempt to counteract Dean’s explosive behavior. “He’s his own person, and he makes his own choices. Sometimes they happen to be bad ones. That doesn’t mean you’ve failed him.”

Dean stayed standing, leaning against the wooden banister and pointedly avoiding Cas’s gaze.

“What’s done is done,” he continued, and got to his feet as well. “Sam relapsed. But he did all he could not to, and so did you. That does count for something.”

Dean’s eyes flickered over to him, bloodshot and full of doubt. “I can’t look at him, Cas, not after what he did in that diner. He didn’t--” he broke off, collected himself, and tried again-- “I swear to God, for a second it was like he didn’t know who I was. He wasn’t my brother.”

“But the person locked up in the panic room _is_ your brother,” Cas responded without missing a beat. “You said it’s your job to look out for him; now would be the right time.”

Dean let his head thunk against the wood. “I hate when you’re right, you know that?”

-

Sam was curled up on the bed with the blanket tucked around his shoulders when Dean opened the small slot in the door. To Cas's relief, Sam wasn’t trembling so badly anymore, but he was still sweaty and gaunt and decidedly green around the gills.

Dean, true to his nature, assessed everything in a matter of seconds. “He’s been sick?” He asked, keeping his voice low as to not wake Sam.

“Violently,” Cas replied. “This withdrawal is not easy, Dean.”

“Well, it's been better than last time,” Dean said. “It was throwing him at the walls.”

“There’s less demon blood in his system than there was back then; it makes sense the severity of the detox would lessen… It might not take as long for it to end, too.”

“Doesn’t matter when it ends,” Dean muttered. “It matters that he’s hurting _now_.”

The door swung open with a loud, slow creak, and Sam stirred as Dean and Cas stepped inside the panic room. His eyes were clouded and hazy with the lingering fever, struggling to focus.

“Dean?” Sam slurred as his gaze finally settled on his older brother.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean crouched down next to the bed and brushed Sam’s sweaty bangs off his forehead. “Jesus, you’re burning up.”

“Coulda told you that,” Sam croaked.

Cas hovered off to the side, wanting to give the brothers some space but ready to assist if the need arose. Sam was half-delirious and sick as a dog, and Dean looked guilt-ridden as hell; that combination could never amount to anything good.

“Here, I’ll--” Dean glanced around, finding the water pitcher. “I’ll get you some water, okay?”

Sam started pushing himself up on his elbows as Dean stepped away from the bed. His arms buckled under his weight and Cas stepped forward to help him sit up, and there was heat flaring in Sam’s cheeks that had nothing to do with his fever.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Cas murmured, low enough so only Sam could hear.

Sam exhaled sharply, the kind of sound that read as _“knowing that doesn’t really stop it,”_ and Cas had to agree.

Dean sat down next to Sam, the old mattress creaking softly when Sam moved to make more room. Only now did Cas fully understand just how upset Sam had been before, because all the fight had gone out of Sam now that Dean was there. He was pliant, more willing to be taken care of.

“Slowly,” Dean instructed as he guided Sam’s hand around a glass of water, and Sam nodded with a slight roll of his eyes. They’d had this back-and-forth before, maybe enough times that they’d lost count.

Cas could see both their souls, sure, and it was hard not to marvel at the beauty of them, but what truly had him stumped was the dynamic between Sam and Dean. He had a superior understanding of the inner mechanics of a human’s essence, he had the blueprints seared into his brain, and yet--

Sam began coughing roughly into his free hand and Dean took the glass back so it wouldn’t spill. Sam doubled over until his head was almost touching the bed, shoulders jerking with the force of each cough; Dean caught him around his middle, rubbing his chest and steadying him by the nape of his neck.

\--And yet, Cas was clueless to how all _this_ worked; how two brothers could hurt one another so badly but still love unconditionally. They were willing to kill and die for each other (and they _had_ ), but Sam had snuck around with a demon for a year, feeding an addiction, and Dean had locked Sam away in the panic room with no initial intention of being there for him.

“You’re alright, Sammy, I gotcha, just let it out,” Dean said, giving Sam a firm clap on the center of his back. Sam lurched a bit, getting his hand under his chin just as he coughed wetly and brought up a coagulated mess of blood and mucus.

“Fuck,” Sam croaked, wincing at the taste that must have been in his mouth.

“It’s okay,” Dean promised, already looking around for a solution. “Cas, can you--”

Cas reached for the roll of paper towels collecting dust under the bed, made an educated guess as to how many he should take, and settled on giving Dean the entire roll. Dean mopped the blood off Sam’s palm, then his chin, then passed him the half-empty glass of water. Sam took a sip, swished it around in his mouth, and spit it back into the glass, tinging the water a dull, uneven pink.

Dean made a face and spilled the water into the bucket next to the bed. “Gross, Sam.”

“Sorry,” Sam breathed an apology. The coughing fit had left him wiped out, but there was some more color in his cheeks and Cas was hopeful.

“I was joking,” Dean said, absentmindedly pulling his shirt sleeve over the heel of his hand and wiping the sweat from Sam’s forehead. “Why don’t you try and go back to sleep, okay?”

The flash of fear in Sam’s face didn’t go unnoticed by any of them.

“We will be here when you wake up,” Cas said, wanting nothing more than to ease some of Sam’s apprehension. He shot a look at Dean, who nodded quickly in agreement.

“Yeah, of course. We’ll stay the whole time,” Dean said, and then added, “I’ll stay, Sam, I swear.”

This seemed to help a fraction, because Sam settled back onto the cot, turning on his side and burying his face in the pillow. One of his hands came out from underneath him, grabbing blindly for Dean’s shirt and holding tight.

“I ain’t going anywhere, Sammy, okay?” Dean reached up to gently loosen his little brother’s hold, and kept Sam’s hand in his even after Sam had let go. “Just sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Cas had seen enough to know how hollow that promise was. Sam would not feel better when he woke up; Sam would continue to suffer for the next 48 to 72 hours, sweaty and trembling, hacking up blood and retching, and it would break Dean’s heart. Cas was grateful he didn’t quite have one.

Or at least he was pretty sure he didn’t.

-

Dean had enough tact not to bring his own vice into the panic room during Sam’s detox. He didn’t even smell like whiskey, which was unusual and disconcerting.

“This blows, Cas,” he grunted.

Cas raised his head from the book he’d found to pretend to occupy himself with. He was sure that if he openly kept an eye on Dean, Dean would get antsy and tell him to stop.

“It’ll be over soon.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean sat cross legged in a chair by the bed, combing his fingers through Sam’s hair. He hadn’t moved for the past thirty minutes. “I wish--” He broke off with a sharp intake of breath and a clench of his jaw. “I wish I could fix this for him, you know?”

“This is something Sam must cope with on his own,” Cas said, hoping he could bring some sort of reassurance. “His choices came with consequences, and he knew that. What you _can_ do is be here for him; that’s all Sam asks of you.”

Dean’s hand shook when he felt Sam’s forehead for a fever.

“Dean.”

“ _What?_ ”

Cas had a pretty good idea of how useless his advice was going to be, because as bullheaded as Sam was, he’d only learned it from his older brother. Sam might have been stubborn, but he at least _listened_. Dean was possibly one of the most cutthroat, insurgent human beings Cas had seen since Jonah threw himself off that boat headed for Tarshish.

“You won’t be able to support others if you don’t take care of yourself,” he said. “Your mind needs rest just as much as your body.”

“Actually, according to Famine, I’m dead inside,” Dean retorted, “so who gives a crap?”

Before Cas could think, before he could consider the consequences for _this_ choice, he said, “ _I_ do.”

All the frustration melted off Dean’s features, and the panic room was very, very quiet for a while. Even Sam’s labored breathing and the low sweep of the ceiling fan seemed to fade away.

Then the moment ended, Dean clearing his throat and shifting in his seat to touch Sam’s cheek with the back of his hand.   

“Think his fever’s going down,” Dean pointedly changed the subject. He unfolded his legs and left Sam’s bedside, his eyes going everywhere but to Cas. “I’m gonna run and grab a few things, so, uh--”

“I’ll tell him you’re coming back if he wakes up,” Cas assured him, and Dean nodded to himself before casting one last look at Sam, meeting Cas’s gaze for a fraction of a second, and then wrenched the panic room door open.

-

Contrary to what Castiel had predicted and true to Dean’s word, things marginally improved when Sam woke up. He was dripping sweat and had gotten so hot that he stripped down to his underwear, but Dean said that meant the fever was breaking.

“Dude, you’re like a frickin’ sauna,” Dean remarked as Sam wiped himself down with a towel for the fifth time that hour.

"Are you sure we can't turn up the A/C?" Sam asked. He was sitting on the edge of the cot, feet planted on the floor, and was bouncing his knees. He'd become jittery after he woke up, which was different from trembling or shaking with chills, because now it was all anxiety-fueled. Sam wrung his hands, crackled his knuckles, curled his toes, and his knees kept bouncing no matter how many times Dean swatted at them.

“It's as high as it can go," Dean said, not without sympathy. "You gotta have some water before you sweat yourself dry.”

Sam shook his head, swallowing hard. “Don’t wanna throw up anymore,” he groaned, and Cas winced in sympathy. He didn’t want Sam throwing up anymore, either.

“Can you at least suck on some ice?” Dean grabbed one of the cloth packs he’d brought back down with him and undid the knot. “Sammy, c’mon.”

Whether it was from the overwhelming heat he was feeling, the anxiety, the incessant discomfort in his stomach, or some combination of the three, Sam had reached his breaking point. His lower lip quivered, his nose scrunched up, and his eyes started to well with tears before he gave up and hid his face in his hands.

Oh, _no_.

Cas could deal with one weepy Winchester no problem, but he doubted he could manage both brothers at the same time. If Sam cried, Dean would cry, and Cas would be stuck in a small room with two emotionally unstable grown men, and he wasn’t exactly itching to find out if he could handle that. He needed to fix this, _now_.

“Sam.” Cas reached for Sam’s shoulder, felt the taut muscles react under his palm.

“ _God,_ I’m--” Sam took a deep, shuddering breath-- “I’m sorry, I can’t…”

Cas and Dean exchanged quick glances; Dean was one wrong move away from losing his composure, and Cas silently counted his blessings that he’d been a soldier who could think on his feet, because he had approximately no time before this blew up.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, careful to keep his voice steady. “Sam, no one is angry with you."

"You can rehydrate later," Dean said. "You don't have to cry about it, okay? I won't force you to do anything you don't want to."

Sam rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers and they came away wet. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I don't know what happened, this came out of nowhere." 

"You don't need to be sorry," Cas told him. "How about you head upstairs and wash up? It might help you feel better.”

Sam and Dean both stared at him, equally stunned.

“But I’m not--” Sam’s watery eyes flickered between him and Dean, waiting for the other ball to drop, prepared to be a punch line. “I’m not allowed to leave…”

“You seem pretty flushed out to me,” Dean said. “I think we’re in the clear, as long as you promise you won’t bust down the front door and make a break for it.”

Sam offered a weak, wobbly grin. “I don’t think I could even knock over a beer can right now.”

“Well, I sure as hell hope you can pick up a bar of soap, ‘cause the shower in Bobby’s guest bathroom is _definitely_ not big enough for the both of us anymore.”

That earned Dean an actual laugh from Sam, fractured and hoarse as it may have been. Crisis averted.

-

Dean had soup going on the stove and a loaf of bread warming in the oven, so Cas sat on the bathroom floor while Sam took a shower (“Make sure he sits down,” Dean had told him, “I don’t want him slipping and hitting his head.”). He’d been worried it would be uncomfortable-- him waiting on the other side of the shower curtain while Sam was in there, completely naked-- but it turned out to be fine. Sam was too tired to feel embarrassed at this point, and Cas wasn’t perturbed by non-sexualized nudity the way most of humankind seemed to be.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah--” Sam peered around the curtain, hair dripping wet and plastered to his flushed face. “But do you think you could get me out of eating whatever Dean’s making in the kitchen right now?”

Cas blinked. “I’m not going to trick Dean for the sole purpose of you missing a meal.”

Sam huffed and pulled the curtain shut again. “You’ll go behind his back to let me jump-start the apocalypse, but you won’t help me avoid puking my guts out?”

“I don’t think you can really compare the two scenarios, Sam.”

Sam groaned, but it was exasperated instead of pained, so Cas saw it as an improvement.

-

They all ate together, mostly to ensure that Sam finished at least half of what was on his plate, and there was a peacefulness that arose in the mundanity of clinking spoons and tearing bread. Cas loved these moments best; where he could watch Sam and Dean fall into a natural, subconscious rhythm, and then slip into it with them if he so desired.

It took a while, but Sam’s bowl was eventually empty; he all but _glanced_ at Dean, and Dean was up and taking the bowl over to the stove to refill it.

Cas granted himself a brief smile.

-

He helped Dean get one of the guest rooms ready-- the one with the two twin beds that Dean looked at with a strange sort of nostalgia that Cas didn’t understand-- and pulled a few books from one of the shelves at Dean’s request.

“Would you like me to read them aloud to help Sam fall asleep?” Cas asked.

Dean let the words hang in the air, staring off nowhere in particular. “I used to do it all the time,” he said. “Read to him, I mean. I don’t know what happened.”

Cas handed Dean the books without any other questions.

-

“All that night Galahad kept his vigil kneeling before the altar in the chapel of the monastery,” Dean read aloud, his voice acting as a soft buffer against the nighttime silence. He and Sam shared one of the twin beds, Sam tucked under Dean’s arm with his head against Dean’s chest and breathing gently. Cas sat on the other bed, listening to Dean, and thinking of how lucky Sam was to have had Dean for his whole life.

“And in the morning after the early service Launcelot blessed him and made him a knight.”

Sam coughed a little bit, and Dean pulled him closer before continuing.

“‘God make you a good man,’ he said,” and Dean punctuated this with a kiss to the crown of Sam’s head, “‘even as there is none more fair to see in this world than you are.’”

For everything telling him he _should_ have been, Cas didn’t feel out of place. So much in the past year had changed, in the scope of the whole world and within himself too, and he had grown to love Sam and Dean and their copious emotional baggage. If sitting here quietly and being a calming, stabilizing presence was what his boys needed from him, that was what he would do.

“‘And now, fair Sir Galahad, will you come with me to the Court of King Arthur?’”

Sam was practically asleep and couldn’t appreciate the silly voices Dean used when he spoke as Launcelot, so Cas smiled for Sam.

“‘Not yet,’ he answered, ‘but soon you shall see me there.’”

Dean dog-eared the page with one hand and set it on the bedside table. Sam didn’t move at all.

“And he’s out,” Dean said, casting a small but triumphant grin in Cas’s direction. “Guess I’ve still got it.”

“You should get some rest, too.”

Dean shook his head. “Nah, I’m okay.”

The dark circles under his eyes spoke otherwise, so Cas used his commanding, angel-of-the-Lord tone that always got under the hunter’s skin. “ _Dean_.”

“ _Alright,_ alright, jeez.” Dean spitefully shoved a pillow behind his head and settled in, allowing his eyes to close.

Cas stood to make his exit and let the brothers get some sleep, but as he was about to cross the threshold--

“Hey, Cas?” Dean’s eyes were open again.

“What is it?”

Dean faltered, changed his mind. “Forget it, don’t worry about it.”

Cas studied him for a moment, then pulled over a chair from the corner and sat at Dean and Sam’s bedside.

“Cas, you’ve done enough, you don’t have to--”

“I want to know what happens next,” he replied, even though that was only half of it. He picked up the book, flipped to the page Dean had left off on, and began to read. “So Launcelot rode back to Camelot with Bors and Lionel, and found the whole company gathered about the Round Table in the great hall: and in letters of gold upon each siege was written the name of him who should sit there…”

It didn’t take long for Dean to fall asleep.

-

The next morning, Dean said nothing about last night, but Cas knew Dean, and he’d known that was what Dean would do. Dean handed him a cup of dark roast even though Cas didn’t have to eat or drink, and Cas sipped at it even though he didn’t have to eat or drink. Dean took his own mug to the kitchen table with the newspaper and flipped through it to find the Sunday Funnies for Cas. 

The only noises, for a while, were the hum of the coffee-maker, the crinkle of newspaper, and the occasional sips and slurps.  

“I’m quite fond of _Peanuts_ ,” Cas murmured, and Dean peeked at him over his section of the paper.

“I always liked _Garfield,_ ” he said, “And _Pearls Before Swine_ is pretty good, too, but I don’t know if that’s your kind of humor.”

Upon glancing through and finding that particular Sunday’s _Pearls Before Swine_ comic strip, Cas had to agree with Dean.

The sense of normalcy was false and strained, but he played along because that was all he could do: try to kill some of the tension until Sam got better.

When Sam _did_  finally come trudging down the stairs-- at a quarter to noon with his hair resembling a bird’s nest and his eyes still half-closed-- Dean asked how he was feeling. Sam merely waved him off, plopped down at the kitchen table next to Cas, and quietly requested that he get some goddamn coffee before the interrogations started, _please_.

Dean ruffled Sam's hair, furthering the disaster that it was, and went to pour another cup. Cas breathed a sigh of relief for all three of them.

**Author's Note:**

> _It gets dark and then_   
>  _I feel certain I am going to rise again_   
>  _If not by faith, then by the sword_   
>  _I'm going to be restored_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \--
> 
> The book Dean was reading is "King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table" by Roger Lancelyn Green.


End file.
